


Morning Light

by poisontaster



Series: Light 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curses, Fuck Or Die, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-31
Updated: 2006-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's wanted this forever...but not like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Light

I.

Sam nods sympathetically. "I know what you mean. It's tough when it's your family, you know? You can't just walk away."

"However much you'd sometimes _like_ to," Heather, the desk clerk, agrees. She licks her lips, smearing sparkly pink gloss, and looks at him speculatively. "You know, I get off in a couple of hours. How 'bout…"

"Can't," Sam says, not as fast as he'd like to, and gives her his regretful smile with a side of doleful eyes. He straightens, bends back a little to ease the kinks out of his back. "My brother's kind of sick and I don't want to leave him alone." He shrugs and picks up the brown paper bag he'd deposited on the front desk. It crinkles dryly, dwarfed by his hand. "Thanks."

She looks disappointed but hopeful, which Sam figures is the best he can hope for, and waves a hand idly. "Well, if you need anything…or you change your mind, you just give a holler."

Halfway out the door, Sam waves back through the smeared plastic window. "Sure will."

It's cool outside the office; finally blessedly cool after the dry glaring heat of day. Not that Sam would really know. He's been holed up with Dean all day, listening to the delirious, cracked drone of Dean's voice over the asthmatic wheeze of the barely-functioning air-conditioning. Sam takes a deep breath, inhaling the scents of dust and sage and ocotillo. His head aches and he doesn't want to go back to the room just yet, even though he knows he shouldn't leave Dean alone for too long.

Sam leans against the stucco, feeling exhaustion settle over his shoulders like Dean's heavy leather jacket. The sky is a beautiful deep blue, lightening down near the horizon, which seems to go on forever. Sam's always liked the desert. Clear lines of vision in all direction.

After a few moments of savoring the stillness, he sighs and pushes off the wall with his shoulders. He unlocks the door to the room and as he opens it, he can already hear the babble of Dean's voice:

"…need it. Need it so bad, Sammy, please. Just…fuck me. Please fuck me."

II.

Sam _hates_ curses.

The thing about a ghost, or were or demon is that at least you know where you stand. There are…precedents. Archetypes. Sure, every demon is its own unique snowflake and whatever, but as Dean likes to say, a demon is a demon is a demon. Within a given margin of error, you know what you're getting. Some Latin, holy water, etc. and you're all done. It's _simple_.

Curses… Jesus. Any fool with a book of spells they picked up from their local Wicca-mart can concoct a curse. And full half of them don't know what the fuck they're doing in the first place. Or worse, they might just be _making it up_ , with no actual intention at all, something weird and inhuman buried far back in their bloodline rising to the surface to make it stick.

So yeah. Sam fucking hates curses. Because you never know what you get until you've got it and like a case of the clap—not that he's ever had clap, don't listen to Dean, he doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about—you could have picked it up months and towns ago before some confluence of sun and moon and stars makes it kick into overdrive and turn your screwed up life _really_ interesting.

Or as it happens, it makes your brother—who probably _has_ had syph—want to be fucked senseless. For _three fucking days straight_. So far, because it's not showing any signs of letting up any time soon.

III.

"Dean, I'm not going to fuck you, all right? So you can just quit asking."

"Sam…" Dean's head falls back on the pillow, his eyes on the ceiling even though the restless writhe of his body doesn't stop for one second. It's weaker than it was, though, Sam thinks worriedly. Dean hasn't eaten; Sam can barely force water down his throat—he knows Dean's dehydrated. "There's…there's no one else. God. _God._ I need… Please Sam. Please, I don't trust…trust anyone else." His back arches and his hips rise, bringing his hardened cock into further prominence. "Please, Sam. I wouldn't…I wouldn't ask…"

"Dean…" Sam comes over and puts his hand on the sweated out bristle of Dean's hair. Even that mild touch makes Dean moan and buck, new freshets of pre-come blurting from his cock. Glazed green eyes look up at Sam like he barely recognizes him, like he barely recognizes _anything_ around him, like he _hurts_.

And the thing is, Sam knows he can…well, not fix it; he's still not sure how to fix it, but he can _alleviate_ it for a while. Long enough, maybe to get his research done and figure out exactly what this curse does—beyond the obvious—and break it.

Dean angles his head and his lips and tongue brush over Sam's wrist, startling Sam so he shies away. "Please, Sam," Dean says again, rough, ragged. "Don't let me… Jesus, I feel like I'll die if you don't fuck me."

"You're not going to die," Sam tells him, but he's not one hundred percent sanguine about that, either. Curses are…tricky things.

"Sam…please. Look, I'm a good fuck, okay? I'm a _great_ fucking fuck. I know…I know this is fucked up and…" Dean gasps and whines, another darker flush going through his skin as he writhes against the sheets and fights the rope. His cock's so red it looks like it's been smeared with blood and despite himself, Sam can't make himself look away, aching in sympathy. "I can be good for you, Sam," Dean whispers. "Just… _Fuck!_ Or let me loose. Just one hand, I swear. Just let me touch… It _hurts_ , Sam. Fuckin' hurts so bad…"

"We tried that, Dean. You almost jerked yourself raw, remember?"

But he doesn't know if Dean remembers, if Dean can. He isn't really sure Dean even _hears_ him, lost in lust haze and pain. Sam jams the ball of his thumb in his eye socket trying to push the pain back and away, but it's about as successful as his previous attempts to make his headache go away. Finally he sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed. Dean lets out a noise like a sob and his whole body twists and tilts in Sam's direction like a flower growing towards the sun. "Please Sam. God, fuck, damn, please… Just one little touch. Just touch it, please…"

And this they've done. There's no way Dean could have made it even this long if Sam hadn't taken one for the team and taken Dean in hand, as it were. He can do this. He can just…not think about it and help his brother out. Sam opens the paper bag and pulls out the little bottle of lube.

It doesn't help, the low moan that Dean gives out when Sam wraps slicked fingers around him. Before Sam's even stroking, Dean's thrusting up into Sam's grip, hot firm flesh sliding through his hand. Sam closes his eyes and tries to concentrate.

"Sammy, Sammy…" Dean chants. His voice is gravelly from three days of almost non-stop talking and the sound of it… Sam shudders. This isn't about him, or the first guy he ever fucked—a TA for a physics class he wasn't taking—or how much that guy looked like Dean or sounded like Dean, only deeper, kind of sort of _exactly just like_ Dean sounds now, groaning, "Yeah, Sammy, like that, harder, oh fuck, harder."

Sam is definitely not thinking of Vince as he jerks his brother off (just like he didn't think of Dean when he fucked Vince).

He's not thinking of anything at all.

IV.

It started really simply.

Dean came out of the bathroom, swaying a little on his bare feet (Sam always found the sight of Dean's naked feet a little weird, making him somehow more vulnerable and more _real_ ). His eyes glittering and wide-pupiled, he'd said very calmly, "Sam, I think… I think you might want to tie me up now."

And although they'd _practiced_ this, for Heaven's sake, Sam still just stood there gaping dully and uncomprehending right up to the moment that Dean had walked across the room, backed Sam into the wall and shoved his face up against Sam's neck, biting and licking. Hard. Against Sam's thigh, Dean had been diamond hard, flexing and rubbing for friction. And Sam—mighty hunter and slayer of demons and ghosts—had made a startled and high-pitched noise in his throat while his hands fluttered helplessly at his sides.

Not for long. He was startled—and after a few seconds, _really_ turned on, because Dean was _good_ at that sort of thing—but he hadn't yet completely lost his mind. So even as his dick was screaming protest, Sam got his hands between them and shoved Dean back. "Dean. What the hell?"

Dean's mouth was shiny-wet, red and swollen from scratching up against Sam's as-yet unshaven stubble, his eyes were almost black and just sort of…absent. Like Dean had checked out. Dean knocked Sam's hands aside, almost as an afterthought, and reached for Sam again.

Sam fielded the grip to his shoulder, but he didn't quite deflect Dean's grab for his crotch. "Hard," Dean whispered and he sounded relieved. "Fuck. I'm hard too. Like I'm fit to bust, I'm so hard. I… C'mon, Sam. Let's fuck."

And Sam, King of Cool and not at _all_ freaked out by his brother's sudden switchback down Incest Lane, burst out laughing.

V.

Of course, three days and an unknown number of hand jobs (both assisted and solo) later, it's a lot less funny.

Not that it was very funny, even at the time. Nervous laughter, you know.

Later, Sam would realize—he should have kept his eyes open. Kept his eyes on Dean. Dean is the master at escape. Of all kinds.

He's so busy concentrating on _not_ concentrating on the feel of Dean's dick as it slides slow-rough-easy through his fingers that he almost misses it when Dean's hand slips over his thigh (which is _not_ rocking in time to the rhythm that he's jacking Dean, that is a pure and bullshit lie) and cups around his cock. There's just the sudden sense of pressure (delicious necessary oh fuck good) and pleasure and for a minute (or a few) he just lets himself go with it, ride with it, feeling good and floating free.

But then Dean's other arm is around his back and tugging him down and—still gliding—Dean's mouth is opening him up and spreading him wide, slow thick tongue and fever hot breath. Sam thought Dean would kiss hard, that he would bleed, that he would break over that shiny broad grin. He thought it would be like when they fight, a tussle that gives no quarter and demands none. He didn't expect this, slow and careful and somehow sweet. He didn't expect tenderness.

He'd been ready to fight Dean. He'd been prepared for that.

He wasn't ready for Dean to seduce him. To be careful with him, like he was something fragile, like he was something precious.

Sometimes Sam thinks he's always been stupid, when it comes to Dean.

VI.

"This isn't going to work," Vince said to him, one day. He'd been sprawled out wide in the bed smoking a joint while Sam sat curled up in the window seat letting the air rush over his sweaty skin. Sam looked at him and Vince looked back and for the billionth fucking time, Sam thought: _too dark. His eyes are too dark._ And behind that, as always, _what the fuck does that even mean?_

"Hey, I like fucking you, Sam, don't get me wrong," Vince said, tipping his head back and blowing a line of smoke up towards the ceiling. He didn't get enough sun; his throat was too pale and at this angle, Sam could see his jaw was just a little too sharp. "But I get the feeling you're wanting me to be someone else, someone I'm not and for as good a fuck as you are, I can't… I'm not going to be a stand-in, Sam. I like you too much for that."

And Sam was the first to look away, color sweeping up through his naked flanks, into his chest, into his face. "You're not a stand-in," Sam mumbled into his knees.

"Yeah." Vince sounded disappointed. "Well, I'm not the guy you see when we're fucking either. So what am I supposed to do with that?"

Sam got up and walked over to the bed, aware of the way Vince's eyes roved over him, hungry and sad. He sank to the mattress, took the j from Vince's fingers and stubbed it out before grabbing the back of Vince's neck and dragging him forward to Sam's mouth. He fucked Vince for hours, eighteen years old and full of…something. Vince clutched Sam and said his name over and over—always Sam and never Sammy—and they both knew it was the end.

VII.

It shouldn't be this easy.

It shouldn't be this hard.

Sam would like to believe this, too, is the curse. The malevolent effect of some witch, _bruja_ , mambo, rather than the cumulative effect of three days without sleep, three days of nonstop begging, nonstop erection, three days of Dean's dick and Dean's voice and Dean Dean Dean. He'd like to believe this is new. He'd like to believe he can do this—just skin and blood and come. It doesn't have to mean _anything._

Because he's not that guy.

(not the one who untied Dean's feet, not the one who let Dean strip him of all his clothes, not him, never him)

And they're not those brothers.

(the freaks weird new kids always strangers nobody but each other and wanting he was always wanting but can't have bad wrong weird not normal to want dream)

But sometime around the time that Dean takes Sam's cock into his mouth and Sam realizes he's fucking _bawling_ , crying like a little kid that got his toy broken, he knows.

"Dean," he says urgently, sitting up, grabbing Dean's head. "Dean, fuck…I can't. Please. I can't do this."

Dean comes up off him with a wet, luscious noise that makes Sam's fingers tighten in the attempt to _not_ use Dean's ears as a handle to put him right back where he was. "Sam—"

"No." Sam's shaking his head; hell, all of him's shaking because he wants this. He _wants this._ But not this way. Not when it's a fucking _spell_. "No, Dean, I'm sorry, I really really can't."

Dean comes up the mattress and tangles himself around Sam again. Sam's still, passive, too fucked up to move towards or away, even when Dean's wet-hard cock slides over/against his. "Sammy," Dean says, peppering Sam's face, his throat, his collarbone with wet, biting kisses. "Sammy, it's okay. We can just… C'mon, Sam. Doesn't have to be a big deal. We can just…fuck, you feel so good. I didn't think…always bitching about your delicate skin…feels so good. Soft. I didn't think you'd be soft."

"Don't," Sam says. Dean shifts on him and under him, Sam's legs spread wider. "And that's the problem. Dean. _Dean._ "

Dean growls, the stiffened tip of his tongue lapping across Sam's nipple in rough licks, making it rise to a sharp, sensitive peak. "This… Just let me fuck you, Sam. Just…just a little. We don't… Just want you. Want you so bad."

"But you don't." Sam laughs and finally has the strength of will to plant his hand against Dean's shoulder and shove him back. "You don't want me, Dean. It's just a spell. A goddamn shitsucking spell and when it's over, when it's out of your system like some kind of cosmic roofie, _I'll_ still be fucked."

Dean blinks. For a moment, locked into this eyefucking look with him, Sam thinks he glimpses his brother. Dean, who would never look that way at him no matter _what_ Sam did. Then he bends to scrape his teeth softly over Sam's earlobe (and _fuck_ , does Dean have any _idea_ what that does to him??) and mutter, "I'd be good to you, Sammy."

"But not forever." Sam can't help the arch of his body, the way it brings Dean's cock down low to slide under Sam's balls. Sam's so sensitive he can feel the sticky wetness skate across hairs and delicate responsive skin. "You… Dean I _can't_. I can't be just…just a dick to you or a hole, or whatever it is your brain's screaming at you to make me."

(…and he is completely and totally _not_ curling his legs up and around Dean's ribs. he is not canting his hips for the careful, gentle persuasion of Dean's fingers, circling around him, brushing across him, thrusting into him…it's all a lie. or an illusion. it's not real, anyway. none of this is real.)

"What… _Goddamn_ , you're tight… What would make you think…" Dean's already more lucid, the irony of whatever this is that has him in thrall. "Oh God, yeah, yeah…c'mon Sam, you like that? Even inside, you're still just…soft. Damn. You're never 'only' Sam. Not a dick not a hole…though we're going to get there too. Another? Can you take another? Please?"

(it's not yes. it's not _yes_ that comes from his mouth, because if he doesn't say yes, if it's not real, if he's not really doing this then maybe—just maybe he can come out of this not-shredded)

_yes. yes._

"I want…it's got to be forever, Dean." And he sounds like a girl. He sounds like every chick-flick cliché that Dean's never wanted to hear from him and he can't help it. He can't stop. Because Dean's working his way inside him in gentle jerking thrusts and he's so full with it so overwhelmed by _this_ and _him_ and it's like four years of dreams he never let himself remember and more years of wanting than he can bring himself to admit. "Just… It's can't just be this. I can't just be your night's fuck."

Dean sort-of laughs, a soundless thing that skates over Sam's skin and makes it feel a little less like it's two sizes too small. "You're Sammy," he says, making that first tentative full thrust in, groaning as Sam grips and rises. "I never…never thought you'd be anyone else."

And as with Vince, Sam only knows of one way to answer to a statement like that. With the truth.

He lies with his mouth; part and parcel of how he was raised and he's never trusted the words that come out of them, apt to be the least like what he ever means. His body though… That's the truth of Sam, the truth of the Winchesters as a whole. Their bodies are weapons and weapons don't need to lie.

_yes. please. okay._

_Dean._

**Author's Note:**

> Written for estrella30 's All CW All the Time Kink/Cliché Challenge with a prompt of: kink - urgency - OMG SEX NOW. Beta services by inlovewithnight, with my thanks.


End file.
